


The Rite of Movement

by mattepinkallshades



Series: The Wait [2]
Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teachers, Butch Katya Zamolodchikova, F/F, saying yes to joy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:29:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26463427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mattepinkallshades/pseuds/mattepinkallshades
Summary: As a rule, Katya numerically spreads out how often she approaches Trixie: two no’s between every yes. It is not because it pains Katya to be so close, but because if Katya did all the time then she would merely be a friend or a lover. She is something else.
Relationships: Trixie Mattel/Katya Zamolodchikova
Series: The Wait [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1743193
Comments: 3
Kudos: 25





	The Rite of Movement

**Author's Note:**

  * For [connyhascontrol](https://archiveofourown.org/users/connyhascontrol/gifts).



> I highly recommend reading [Imagine Being Loved By Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24155839) first because this will make much more sense if you do. It is set years before that happens and expands upon a brief but important memory from that story. 
> 
> Title is borrowed from Hozier’s song “Movement”. 
> 
> This is for connyhascontrol because she loves IBLBM—and me—so much.

Katya wishes she had kept a copy of the letter she just left in Trixie’s mail slot. If she could look at it now, if she could re-examine every word and analyze how clearly her proposal was phrased and positioned in amongst all the vital organs she unspooled on those pages, then she could eat this Panera lunch in her car in peace. 

The cafeteria is filled inside and out with Katya’s overeager adolescent fans, and the faculty lounge is where Trixie takes respite from her tormentors, the ones who scrawled ‘incinerator Barbie’ in indelible pink sharpie on her classroom’s whiteboard before finals week last term. Trixie had to administer all her classes’ exams in front of that moniker and she declined to paper over it.  _ ‘I’d rather they all stare at it while they fill in their blue books.’  _

Car lunch it is. The lot is close to full so Katya will not stick out from the bunch, which is exactly what she wants right now. 

She chews on a whole leaf of lettuce from her sandwich, open-mouthed because she is fucking alone in her own vehicle. She thinks about the feelings she confessed and whether they will come as a shock to Trixie, or no shock at all. This is only the thousandth, ten thousandth time Katya has wondered  _ surely she must know, she must feel it, I don’t hunt unicorns.  _ She tongues a strip of greenery from the smooth enamel at the back of one of her canines and reviews the different plans she offered to Trixie in those pages, now that it is too late to take them off the table. It haunts Katya that her faux chivalry made her feel noble about offering a sexless, loveless marriage if that is what Trixie wants. It is a lie. It sure as fuck is not what Katya wants and she does not hate herself. She is not that small. It is as though she has spent a lifetime preparing this gift for Trixie and then threw in a kitchen spatula to ensure Trixie would at least like that. Neither of them would like a spatula, Katya knows. 

Katya huffs and gurgles at herself, pulls her arm out of her still-buckled seat belt, and stuffs the end corner of the sandwich into her mouth.  _ ‘Marriage, you know, marriage? Love doesn’t have to come first, doesn’t have to come at all. No one has to come!’  _

That is what Trixie proclaimed with the gentle laugh of a screech owl at a fête last year hosted by Principal Mattel to honor the retiring classic languages department chair. The retiree pulled out a joint in the garden behind the glassed-in pool, split it three ways with them. Trixie likes to tell Katya, usually after a couple drinks, that she has always been straight edge, never smoked, never did a weed. Still, it did not shock Katya that she partook that one evening. It  _ exhilarated _ her to watch her be bad, nearly as much as it exhilarated her to hear say ‘come’ so many times. It was the coolest thing to ever happen before her near-sighted eyes. As Katya gazed at that magenta-painted mouth, Trixie poked her in the waist and tousled her constantly over-shampooed hair, forcing the buzz to finally hit Katya’s brain. Katya rebalanced herself and tasted the lipstick Trixie left on the paper. She hovered her hand over the hem of Trixie’s suit jacket waiting for her to choke on the smoke, waiting for the chance to pat her on the back and feel her body heat through her clothes. That would be enough, Katya thought that night. Sadly, Trixie never choked. 

As a rule, Katya numerically spreads out how often she approaches Trixie: two no’s between every yes. It is not because it pains Katya to be so close, but because if Katya did all the time then she would merely be a friend or a lover. She is something else. She is the one who Trixie almost kissed after Katya helped her sort out the coat check at the faculty holiday bash, the same year Trixie debuted as the principal’s new wife. Ever since that night, twenty-ish years ago now, Katya has been counting off in threes, waiting for her next turn. 

It does piss Katya off that she failed to include  _ some _ guidance as to when she would like an answer. It seemed unfair to force it, but what a joy it would be for the whole document to self-destruct at midnight if Trixie gave no reply. Then Katya would not have to think of this time bomb ticking out there in a drawer or purse. 

Today is Friday. On Tuesday, Trixie goes in for surgery to get her toxic orbs removed. Katya checked Trixie’s mailbox before leaving for lunch and it was emptied. So Trixie has it. She may have already gone home. No, Katya remembers, she teaches last period on Fridays and loves to use every last second of it, refusing to let her students go even if the bell has rung. 

Trixie may not even know yet what she has. She may toss Katya’s missive on a pile to be handled after she returns home from the hospital, after she has enough energy and clarity to tend to said pile. Her husband … Principal Mattel could see it. They could laugh together about it while signing Katya’s termination papers. That is the least likely scenario, to be fair, as Katya doubts they laugh together about anything. She has only seen him smile when Trixie is on his arm at parties and in vacation photos. 

When her lunch starts to back up her throat, Katya reminds herself again—and again—there is a reason she committed it to paper for Trixie. There are numerous reasons, and those reasons do not all reside in Katya’s imagination. They reside in glances, unflattering tones of laughter, the briefest of touches that still linger a half second too long, inside jokes, shared appreciation for certain Lifetime Movie stars, and either finding each other at every party or pestering each other afterwards if they did not. Trixie does that whenever she can not find Katya. It only gives Katya more motivation to stick with her austerity measures. 

Katya puts the second half of the sandwich back in the bag and tosses it in the passenger seat footwell with the other takeout trash, squashes it all down with her open hand. It is past time to clean them out. If Trixie says yes, Katya may take a cooking class. If she does not, Katya will qualify for a senior discount at Noodles and Company soon enough. 

The nerve in her neck that gets trapped by tight muscles starts to radiate pain around her right ear. The weekend is just hours away, Katya knows she can make it that long. She rests her forehead on the steering wheel and presses her fingertips into the base of her skull, hits a spot that shoots all the way to her teeth. Her car horn beeps under her chin and shaves a decade off her life, poof just like that. As her ears stop ringing, a shadow drifts over the sunlight on her dashboard, and four gentle knocks strum her passenger window. Probably the security guard checking on her. Or one of her AP students. The principal. A police officer. A kindly EMT with a shot of ketamine. 

Katya turns her face and sees … a lot. Trixie and her rattling acrylic jewelry and her every-Friday-lavender-houndstooth-knit-suit. And then her face and hair filling the window frame. Katya presses the button to roll down her window with her cheek still smashed against the steering wheel. Her perfume hits Katya’s nose before her voice hits her ears. 

“Are you kidding me?” Trixie mutters while the window is still rolling and reaches in to pull up the door lock, lets herself in. Katya pulls herself back from the wheel without unfurling her body, her face screwed up in doubt and confusion. “You’re off to a good start.”

“What? Sorry what what … what is up? What’s up?”

“Shush,” Trixie insists with her palm. Paper bags slowly creak and crinkle under her stabby, fidgety feet. “What  _ is _ this, you hog, what am I stepping in? It’s soft,” Trixie gags. Katya thrusts her hand down and tries to jostle Trixie’s ivory pump loose from what it has pierced. 

“Would you—come on, move your hoof so I can toss this shit in the back.” Trixie slowly obeys. She holds both feet up and a blob of ketchup drips from the ankle of her thoroughly opaque stockings. When varicose veins started to show through her pantyhose, Trixie switched to full coverage stockings that are a shade too light and make her legs look something other than believable ‘woman’. It is pure hyper-fixated vanity that addresses one problem while creating a whole other one and Katya loves Trixie’s stubborn commitment. 

“Katya—”

“It’s good now, I wiped it off.”

“With your finger?” Trixie laughs. 

“Well …” Katya holds her ketchup-smeared forearm up like she is elevating a bleeding cut. She darts her head right and left looking for a napkin while Trixie finds one, brings it to Katya’s wound. She grips Katya’s wrist with the napkin and her eyes find Katya’s. Katya’s lips twitch into an apologetic frown. 

“Why are you like this?” 

“I’m not like anything,” Katya giggles and gasps for air for the first time since Trixie bombarded her car. “I’m just sitting here, in my mobile dining dumpster, listening to one song on repeat like I do.” Trixie’s hand is strong on her arm. Katya has never held it before. She still has not held it. 

“Like you do,” Trixie repeats. Katya nods and so does Trixie. She lays Katya’s arm on the console, keeps pressure on it. “Katya—”

“Did you find my latest gift?” 

Trixie squeezes her arm and laughs in a way she often does when Katya lets herself be near, but it does not seem as sincere as usual. “It’s a little large.” 

“I know, I know, it breaks the unspoken small-scale rule we have, it’s too big.” ‘It’ is an entire slice of tree trunk with an amateur engraving of an ugly dog’s face. Katya left it on Trixie’s classroom desk yesterday, as she does semi-weekly with other, smaller thrift shop objets d’art. “But I grabbed it a while ago and ran out of smaller things to leave you. I smuggled it under my vest so no one saw,” Katya promises, unzipping and zipping her fleece vest. 

“Wait, you buy things in advance and then dole them out to me?”

“You think I thrift junk for you weekly? I am a busy woman, I have a job and I occasionally feed myself.” 

“Fucking Templeton … ” Trixie mumbles while flicking through the mound of greasy brown paper bags around her feet. Her left hand remains on Katya’s arm. “So,” she says and looks back up, not doing a thing about the trash. 

“So,” Katya repeats. “You know I think maybe it was unfair of me to launch this on you right now? I think I should have waited. Yeah. Yeah! I got  _ way _ too into my head.”

“Katya—”

“You should be focusing on you. And you know, taking care of yourself,” Katya insists with her hands to her chest, so earnest she actually conjures a tear. She swears Trixie can see the thump of her heart under her hands. Katya has so many bricks she wants to lay down, a whole wall of them, in repentance for letting it all go like it was ever an actual option. Like she ever had the right to. 

“I want to say yes.” 

“But you can’t right now!” Katya says, grabbing another brick from her guts like it’s no bother at all, like what she really wants is for Trixie to do what is best for her. She can feel the stubs of her angel wings bursting through her shoulder blades. “I get that, I really do.”

“I am saying yes,” Trixie repeats with sure nods and wide open eyes. “I was expecting a slightly stronger reaction.” 

“Oh! Yeah, my nervous system shut down when you broke into my car. I’m numb.” 

“No you’re not.” Trixie wipes the wound clean and brushes her finger across the long, fine hair that’s now stuck down to Katya’s arm. Katya thinks that will be it but Trixie brushes the hair back in the other direction, lifting it from Katya’s skin. A quick bolt of blue static electricity startles them both away from each other. Katya lays her arm down and cannot think of an expression to put on her face as she watches Trixie’s hand twitch in her lap and then move to touch her again. She waves her fingers over Katya’s forearm, testing for another reaction or reading a fortune. When none comes, Trixie extends one finger out and tilts her head. With just the pad of her finger, keeping her long nail clear of Katya’s delicate skin, Trixie gently strokes each individual hair and Katya makes no effort to slow her deep breaths. 

Over decades, Katya has gone to great lengths to believe that one likely idle touch in the course of a six month period meant  _ something _ . She has covered herself with a heavy blanket and made a bouquet of fabric to cradle and kiss, cloaking her head in it, surging up to catch it, and falling back into her bed wet and hot. Alone, most of all. 

The caress of Trixie’s brave middle finger along two inches of Katya’s skin that is often exposed and visible but now feels naked makes it impossible to hold her hips completely still now. Her breaths make a tremble across the few loose strands at the top of Trixie’s coif. 

“You have a lot of freckles.”

Katya exhales and wishes she could unbuckle herself without it seeming aggressive, without rocketing into Trixie’s lap. 

“Did you say yes?” she squeezes out. It seems like her tongue was too involved in that simple phrase, a sensation she often experiences dreams. 

Trixie nods again, softer. “Yes.” 

She smooths down Katya’s arm and withdraws, knots her hands together on the skirt pulled tight over her thighs. Trixie asks her where her glasses are if she is not wearing them, and Katya picks them out of the cup holder, puts them on her face. Trixie never sees her without her glasses. They only come off if she is trying to sleep, or about to sleep with someone. The lenses are covered with smudges, and without warning Trixie takes them off her to wipe them clean, then hands them back to her. Katya hesitates to accept them. 

“Katya—”

“I know.” It will be complex. They cannot talk about it immediately. Katya knows that. 

Katya takes the glasses from Trixie’s hand and puts them on again. About ten yards in front of her is a walking path leading up to the school’s greenhouse. One of her science department colleagues set up bird feeders to attract species for students to observe and document. 

“Honey, you’re crying. I don’t want to make you cry. This is huge …” Trixie flashes her hands around her head trying to gesture the words. “I don’t know how but we’ll—”

“No,” Katya laughs. “Look,” she says and points through the windshield. Her laugh bubbles through her tears. 

Before them, eight plain small birds perch and gorge themselves. She counts them with her pointed finger. Larger cardinals and blue jays hover in higher branches instead of disturbing them. “There are just so many of them. I don’t think I’ve seen so many at one time.” 

“Yeah,” Trixie agrees like it’s the most obvious fact in the world. “Is this how you are when you’re alone?” 

“I don’t know,” Katya cackles. It is in that moment she realizes she has never wanted to kiss someone before now, not if this is how it feels to truly want. She closes her eyes over the feeling to remember it. It is not their time yet. When she opens them again, she notices the line between Trixie’s foundation and the pale hair in front of her ear. “You’re an animal.”

“What?” Trixie squawks and her breath is minty. Trixie only chews fruity gum, her purse always smells like watermelon when she rifles through it. But she chewed minty gum after eating her lunch, before coming to see Katya today. The knowledge of that sequence of events and what Trixie thought might happen makes Katya squeal and pinch herself to stop it, all at once. 

“Guess you say yes to the full package?” Katya allows herself to ask. As she scans Trixie’s body for a reaction, Katya considers how it will feel to be near her from now on. Perhaps she no longer needs to keep count. 

Trixie clears her throat and lingers on the ‘mmm’ of it. It turns out her seductive face is one she shows Katya quite often. History is being rewritten in this Mini Cooper. When she signed the longest financing terms possible on this car, Katya thought of it as a nice treat for herself, a rare flashy purchase, and it looked so hot for a moment. She does not remember when dirty laundry began to accumulate in the back seat. 

“Yeah,” Trixie answers with a sigh. “I think we’re a bit old to be chancing it with McDonald’s, hmm?”

“So flirty.” 

“You’d better know your cholesterol levels. Do you get regular tests done and stuff?” Trixie goes on undeterred, angled into Katya like a morning talk show host. 

“This is weirder than any first date I’ve been on! And you—you just fucked my arm. Can’t back out now, hymen is ripped on this bitch.” For a second, Trixie’s eyes are dark and still as stones on her. Then she gasps and hacks a silent, strained laugh with her jaw stuck to her chest. The warmth in Katya’s stomach floods through her toes and she smiles wider with the tears dried and stiff on her cheeks. “I’ll relive every second of it frequently, if you don’t mind.” 

“Oh my god, I have to go.” The thud of the car handle unlatching the door breaks the vacuum of the blank universe they just created and occupied together. “I have a class of angels waiting to immolate me.” 

“So do I,” Katya quickly replies. “Good luck with your tits.” 

“Thanks so much,” Trixie giggles nervously with a devastating crack in her usually smooth, thundering voice. She stands in the open door, hunched over. In her heels, Trixie is far too tall for this tiny car. She is more magnificent than Katya has ever let herself believe. And she desires Katya. 

“No really, good luck,” Katya repeats. She grinds the tips of her chewed up thumbs into the wet corners of her eyes. “If I weren’t so terrified of someone slicing you open again before I got my shot in,” she says with a shrug and a smile to mask the wobble in her voice. Trixie nods her head, speechless for once. Of all the fragments of agreement they have shared over the last ten minutes, Katya knows she will recall this one the most faithfully.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'm on tumblr at [mattepinkallshades](https://mattepinkallshades.tumblr.com/).


End file.
